


You're the Only One

by adinex



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game), Halloween Movies - All Media Types
Genre: Blood and Gore, Other, Reader-Insert, slasher/reader fic, then I got too invested oop, this was meant to be short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-05-15 18:54:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19301761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adinex/pseuds/adinex
Summary: Don’t make a sound. Don't let them hear you. God, it's so damn quiet.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday to my friendo!

You hold your breath despite your body’s need to draw in air. _Don’t make a sound. Don’t make a sound. Can’t let them hear you._ Your body betrays you and shuddering breath breaks past your lips. You clasp your hand over your mouth to stifle the sound but it’s too late. You see him in the expressionless mask, the glint of a knife. _Run_. You push off the crate and bolt between the hay stacks. Your feet slip but you keep your balance. Your hands grab a pallet at the last second and yank it. You hear a thump. Your lungs burn but you can’t stop. Don’t stop. Never stop. You weave between walls and buildings and bales and only when you’re deep in the forest do you slow.

You lean against a tree, your fingers sliding down the bark, anything to stable yourself. You’re pretty sure you’ve pulled a stitch or two. Need to find a med kit. You scan the misty woods. No one. Not even a sound. You don’t think about what that might mean. The others have to be okay. You slide to the base of the tree and stretch your legs out. Your muscles ache but that’s nothing new. At least your pulse isn’t hammering in your ears. It’s quiet.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been here. Hours, days, weeks. It all blurs together. Another day surviving whatever’s there stalking between the trees. There were rumors that another killer had appeared, something Feng let slip the last time you met up. But that was days ago. Months. It’s so damn quiet.

You think about how many generators are still left. At least two. You’d only gotten half the gens working, but I guess you’d survived too long; the Entity had decided to throw another threat into the mix. _Fucking horror show_. You’ve been sitting for too long. Need to keep moving. Find a chest, a crate, something to staunch the bleeding. You definitely pulled some stitches. You place a hand on your side. You should have known better than to trust Dwight. He could barely thread the needle his hands were shaking so bad.

You haven’t been sitting long before you feel the hairs on my neck raise, feel the familiar adrenaline that comes from being hunted. You crouch and scan the mist. No shadows, no eyes, no determined killer in his mask pushing toward you. But there’s something. There’s no way to know if the rumor is true, but you don’t want to find out. You sneak under tree limbs, past hay stacks. You need to get the barn, see if you can meet up with Jake or Feng. It’s been so long since you’ve seen anyone. Your eyes are already glazing over but you have to stay awake. Get to the barn, find a med kit, fix a gen. Easy list.

You freeze. A spotlight glints off something metal in the distance. You grip your head, already feeling the effects. _Freddy. Shit_. At least now you know the rumors are true. You veer off to the side, hoping he hasn’t found you yet. Your legs itch to run but it’s too late for that. You inch around trunks and over leaves, cringing at every crunch under your shoes.

A scream cuts through the air and you halt. Jane? No, you think Jane died days ago. Hours? Another trial? Everything is so blurry. You force yourself to keep moving. You’re not dead yet, you can still think. Just. Keep. Moving.

Eventually the effect of his dreamland wears off.  Your body doesn’t weigh on you as much. You draw in a shuddering breath and press your hand against your side. It’s not bleeding as much but you still need a med kit. You see a large structure through the mist and recognize the scent of dirt and hay. The barn. You feel yourself smile. You sneak through the barn door’s and feel a twinge of panic when no one is inside. It’s been too quiet. The Shape, Michael, was one thing but Freddy too. There weren’t many survivors to begin with. You push the thought aside. Panic slows you down. Panic gets you killed.

You step through the barn door and weave around the bales and rusted machinery. The generator is still working. There’s still a chance you can all get out of this. The crates are empty but you move to a pile of hay and stuff your arm into it, groping for a med kit. Your fingers touch metal and you yank it free. If you can’t beat the game, change the odds. You had placed stashes across the field, in buildings, under marked bales. This was the largest stash. Was. Now there were only two left. You sit down and pull thread and a needle from the kit. All antiseptics and gauze are gone. You don’t think about who might have needed those.

Now that you’re not moving there’s no sound to fill the air. It’s so quiet. You almost want to whistle, talk to empty air, even hear the sound of a chainsaw, a knife through the air. Anything to break this silence. If you didn’t die maybe you’d go mad.

You yank the curved needle through skin and tie off the end. Your breaths are ragged but the pain isn’t anything new. It’ll disappear. You stuff the kit back into the hay stack and stand. As you pull your shirt down, you get that feeling again. Your body reacts before your mind does. Something is out there, in the dark. You creep to a window and peak over the top. You can’t see a thing in this mist, but you know something’s there. A shadow, movement in the fog hanging around wheelbarrows and pallets. The taste of iron coats your mouth, as if your body remembers the feeling of being stabbed, of the pull and tear of skin. Your eyes rest on a hook that you’ve been lucky to avoid. For now. Your eyes dart back toward the trees. Everything in you says to hide in a locker and stay there, the survivor in you says to _run_.

You dart to the other side of the barn and vault through a window. You don’t care about leaving a trail. Just run. Find a generator and fix it. The sooner it’s fixed the sooner you can get out of here. You can all get out of here.

_~~You’re the only one left.~~ _

Keep going. The others are still there. Jake is still there. Feng will meet me at the last gen. It’ll be fine. We’ll be fine. You’re so caught in your head that you don’t see the knives until they’re in front of you. You duck too late and feel the bite of pain flare up your arm. You grit your teeth, push through the fog dragging you down to dream land. _Just sleep. You could. You’re so tired. So empty._ You clench a hand around your arm and the pain brings you back. Your legs are moving. You’re still moving. Freddy laughs from somewhere behind. He knows he can outrun you, that you’re leaving spots of blood like neon paint on the leaves.

“Why are you running?”

_Because I want to survive. Have to find the others. Get to the gen. Where the fuck am I?_ You’ve made it to the other side of the field and now the trees are thinning. Corn won’t hide you. You saw that with Dwight. No. Your legs have carried you this far and there’s no turning back. The stalks whack your arm, sending jolts of pain through your body. The blood is soaking your shirt, as if it wasn’t covered in stains before. You can hear him, feel his bloodlust, his cackles at your misery. We’re just animals hunted. The generators are a joke. _Why am I running?_

You trip over a broken stalk. Your side burns from the fresh stitches. “Shit,” you mutter. All you needed was that silent killer to make this a fucking party. You scramble away from Freddy, grotesque, laughing Freddy. Your hands slip on the broad leaves and blood trails. Your arm burns from where his glove had gouged the skin. As if the Entity didn’t already have a crude sense of humor the silence is broken by a sound. A chainsaw rips through the air and you feel your resolve crumble. _No, no no no_

You know better than to look away from Freddy but you can’t help it. The twisted, deformed figure of the Hillbilly lopes toward you. _Not one extra killer. Two_.

“Nope.” In your desperation you roll to the side, missing the claws by fractions, feeling it graze your shirt fabric. You push off the balls of your feet and launch yourself into the corn field. It won’t offer much cover, but maybe you can slow them down. You know you’re grasping at threads, for small hopes and delusions but after spending a lifetime in this place desperation makes you do stupid things.

The chainsaw roars again and knives clink together. A laugh, two, doesn’t matter. _Run._ You push corn stalks out of the way, push your way through the field, zig-zag even though you know it only exhausts you more. But you have to do something. You have to feel some semblance of control in this game. But this game is rigged.

Your skin prickles and you know what it means. You’re cornered and there’s nothing you can do against three. A figure moves out from the trees and for a long second all you do is stare at the mask, the face turned silver in the moonlight. You hear the chainsaw behind you coming faster. Your eyes scan hungrily for any opening, any place to go. But you know it’s fruitless. There is nothing you can do against this killer. All you can do is pray he kills you fast. You break through the corn and stand there, feeling your heart pound in your ears. Your blood is so warm and slick on your skin. Your stitches hurt like a bitch. _I’m going to die and the last thing I’ll see is that empty face._

Except he doesn’t move. You break right and keep sprinting. You expect to feel a knife, feel pain. But you feel nothing. You don’t have the chance look back, don’t want to risk losing what little chance you have. You keep going.

You know this area. You know there’s a pallet just after the overturned wheelbarrow. You and Jane had upturned it to make a landmark in this godforsaken place, a signal to the others that a toolbox was hidden nearby. Toolboxes won’t help you. Maybe if you find the generator, but you have to hide. You might have a slim chance against Michael alone, but with Hillbilly and Freddy in the mix you have nothing. Impossible.

You squeeze your eyes shut them forced yourself to look back. Empty. Quiet. Even the chainsaw has stopped.  No sign of Freddy and his torn hat and gruesome smile. No flash of light off his gloves. An empty forest. You cough out a laugh at your luck. Whatever the Entity wanted it wouldn’t get. Not yet.

You turn around and keep running.

The last generator is quiet and still. A bloody hand print is smeared down the side. You ignore the grief twisting in you stomach.

_~~Feng will meet me.~~ _

You start work on the generator, cleaning elements, reattaching tubing. unwinding wires. A toolkit is still nearby. You grab the screwdriver and the weight feels good. Secure. Like you have a purpose. Like you can survive.

You keep an ear out for the rip of a chainsaw, uneasy that you haven’t heard it for a while. The Hillbilly was here. You _know_ you didn’t hallucinate that horror. Just as you know you saw Michael chase down Jake. You blink, not realizing when your vision blurred with liquid. You wipe a hand across your eyes then regret it as crusted blood rubs then skin. Your arm hurts so much. You should have kept that med kit. The barn is too far away. _Focus on the generator_. Your breath is ragged and your lungs hurt, but at least the forest is quiet. The mist continues to obscure the leaves and sticks and blood.

One more. One more generator. Your footsteps are quiet and the only sound is your shallow breaths through my mouth. You clench a hand over your wounds, though it’s little help against the flowing blood. You can guess where the last generator is. _~~We~~ I can do this._

You take the long way around, not interested in going back to the corn fields. You know it’s stupid, that the killers have moved on but you don’t want to risk it. _This is all a risk_. You weave past piles of hay and tools and working generators. You only let yourself glance at the meat hooks placed across the forest, the fields, past the barn. The blood has long since dried but you can still imagine it flowing, dripping from those sharpened points. You force your eyes away.

You stop on a rocky incline. It’s dangerous to tempt fate, but you need the vantage point. You need a med kit. You scan for any landmark the others might have left. Any sign of life. You can pick out an overturned crate somewhere to your left. It’s far, but you can make it. You can outrun them. _~~You can’t~~_ ~~.~~

You’re almost there when you feel the weight of someone’s eyes. “ _No_ ,” you groan through clenched teeth. It’s too late to run, he’s already seen you. You want to run though, to spring away from this. This stupid, unfair game. You’re still far from the med kit, too far from the generator, too far from everything. Too far from the others, who are probably already a lifetime away.

You scan your surroundings, the misty forest, muddy branches. Bales, crates, a pallet. You make a bee-line for it, weaving around the barrels and hooks. You can imagine the pain already. You vault over a box, through an opening in a broken wall, weave around a corner. Still you feel that presence. Feel those eyes. Feel the slice of that knife.

You skid around a corner and swivel, just on the other side of a pallet. You throw it down and hear the satisfying thud. You pant and drag air into your lungs but you still feel like you’re suffocating. Like you don’t have enough air, that you never will. That this place has already poisoned you and even if you were to find a way out you’d still feel death’s grip around your throat.

 “So that’s it then, Michael. You’re just gonna play with your food?”

He stands on the other side, gazing at you. You’re tempted to feint to one side of the pallet, but you know his speed and how much damage a well-timed slash can do. Your muscles tense but he makes no move to attack. You take a tentative step around the pallet. He doesn’t move a muscle, doesn’t even indicate that he noticed. You take another, testing how far he wants this hunt to go. _Why aren’t I dead yet?_

“Where are the others?” You listen for a sound of Freddy in the trees, of the chainsaw.

He shakes his head.

“You killed them?”

Silence.

“Why?” He raises a hand and points to you. Your give a shaky laugh. Of course you’d be the obsession of this psycho path. Of course he’d want your blood all to himself. “Don’t like sharing?” You don’t know where your courage comes from. Maybe it’s not courage and you’re just going insane. 

Maybe you already are.

Light glints off something in his other hand, but it isn’t a knife. You didn’t notice at first, too caught up in imagining the ways to skin a person, stab them, butcher them. The red cross makes you freeze. Michael tosses the kit and it bounces off the pallet before skidding toward your foot. You don’t look at where it lands, just feels where it touches your shoe. Slowly you bend down, keeping your eyes focused on his mask, and blindly search for the handle. Your fingers close around it. You rotate it and fumble for the clasps. It pops open and you risk a glance downward. Full. Antiseptics, wipes, gauze, stitches, tape, even fucking band-aids with pictures on them. Your eyes jerk back up toward his face.

“Why?”

He points again to your bleeding arm. The gashes left by Freddy’s knives. “You want to heal me.” You can’t even form it into a question. This is absurd. Insane. Impossible. Killers don’t heal. Survivors don’t live. You look for the knife but it’s not in his hands. You can’t see his eyes but you can feel them. You could always feel them.

His head moves and you can tell he’s looking at the wounds. It hurts so much and you didn’t notice how bad it was. You’d never really looked at it. The gouges are deep and red and ragged. The lines go all the way up your arm, from shoulder to elbow, a couple nicks near your wrist. Five fingers can do a lot. You know it’s stupid to say, when he’s still a killer close enough to run you down and grab you by the throat but you do anyway. “Thank you.”

In the time it takes you to glance down at the kit and stand, the forest is empty again.

It’s not much of shelter, but the ruined wall and a few crates put you at ease. You maneuver yourself to the ground and pull the disinfectants from the kit and rip the pouches open. Your breath comes out through your teeth and you wince at the pain. After all this time, this is what hurts the most. Not the slices from metal or the cuts from brambles. You let yourself believe it was the weight of his stare, the origin of this kit that makes it hurt worse. You stitch up what you can and wrap gauze around what’s left. The pain has dulled and you can finally think. The last generator. I’m close. _~~We’re so close~~_ ~~.~~

You can’t shake the feeling that you’ll see Jane hiding behind a hay bale, or Jake standing in the shadows of a tree. You close your eyes, allowing only a moment to ground yourself. Remember what you have to do in this moment only. Fix the last generator. Escape. Easy.

You move across the field, aware of how little sneaking does against Michael. You’re still caught off-guard at his behavior. You try to explain why he’d give you a first-aid kit, why he’d let you heal. He’ll just kill you in the end; it shouldn’t matter if you’re stitched up or bleeding when it happens. The sight of the generator halts your thoughts. You let out a breath and crouch beside it. Someone had tried fixing it. You recognize Feng’s handiwork. You attach the last wires, reattach bolts and vents and pipes. As the generator jerks to life, you wipe my greasy hands on your pants.

You stand and that’s when he catches you. Your breath catches and your lungs fight for the air that won’t come. You didn’t see him move, but Michael stands in front of you, tightening his hand around your neck. You knew it was too strange. There was no way he’d let you go. He wants the chase, the kill. He lives for the chance to hurt. 

The knife you couldn’t find before reflects the light from the spotlight overhead as it rises toward your face. You try to struggle but his grip is too strong and you’re running out of air. You wait for the sharp pain but the tip only leaves a blood stain along your jaw line. You grasp at his hand, anything to loosen his grip and you manage to wiggle free enough to suck in a breath of air.

“Why are you playing this game?” You gasp for air, try to get footing on the generator just out of reach. “Just kill me already.”

 The knife freezes in its path along your cheekbone.

“That’s what this is? Your obsession?” All the days or weeks or eternity you’d spent hiding from his stealth. The way he stalks his prey. You were so close. So close to freedom that it aches. You stare into the empty face, at the silent killer, waiting.

The knife lowers. The fingers around your neck loosen and you gulp in air. Your head feels so light and the landscape swoons and you think it’s because of the rush of oxygen to your brain. Then you realize it’s because he’s tilting you head back. The kiss is quick and unexpected. Less of a kiss and more of a press against your lips, something through his mask. You pull away but he doesn’t let you. Solid hands press against your shoulders, forcing your backwards. Tree bark digs into your back. His fingers spread across your jaw, up your cheek and all you can do is stand there. Shivers run through your body as he presses against you. You should be running. You should be fighting. Get away. Keep low. Don’t let them see you.

But he does see you.

He has your arms pinned to your sides and it twists and hurts but your head only filled with the thought is on his weight and your shallow breaths. You see his dark eyes and wonder what he’s thinking behind that mask.

Obsession makes you do stupid things.

Your fingers curl and he senses you move and slowly you reach out and twist your fingers into his shirt. You think about how mad you must be. The insanity of silence finally getting to you and now the only thing that makes sense is this feeling.

_~~I’m alone.~~ _

Your fingers wrinkle his stained clothes. His fingers slide down your arms to wrap around your hands. He untangles them from his shirt and pulls you away from the tree. Then away from the generator and he’s dragging you away from the stained hooks, the broken barn, empty med kits. You can feel the adrenaline in your muscles, the habit to run, to fight for a chance to survive but you can’t shake the feeling that you’re both past that game. He drags you across the corn field, the hay bales and silos.

“Michael, where are you taking me?” You’re breathless and your voice is raw.

You get your answer as you stop in the middle of an open prairie. The one place your group hadn’t dared. You stare down at the metal barrier, the simple exit to safety. The hatch. “Why are you–”

But you’re cut off by another press against your lips, another hand fumbling around your neck. Your breath catches as his fingers tighten, not enough to hurt but enough to feel. He finally releases you and he bends down to wrench the hatch open. A hand closes around your arm and you give a single nod. You pull him closer. Your hands wind around him and you feel that press against your lips, against you cheek.

You back toward the hatch and tug him down with you.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was only _ever_ you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shows up late with starbucks. What up here's the last chapter of this fic. Happy Halloween my dudes!

The dim light is blinding after the darkness of the hatch. The after images that flash across your vision remind you of generator sparks. Everything leads back to those sick games. You hold up a hand to shield your eyes and realize your other hand is still wrapped around something. The rough fabric of the jumpsuit brings you back to those final moments: Freddy’s laugh, the blood sticking on your skin. But you’re out now.

You’re free.

You’re not sure where you’re leading Michael until you see the glow of the fire. Your body relaxes instinctively. Nothing hurts at the campfire.

You yank Michael’s clothing, realizing too late that your strength would barely nudge him. He halts anyway and looks down at you. “Wait. We – you–” You falter for words. “The others aren’t going to be expecting you. No one’s come from the trials, I mean no…” It doesn’t seem like a good idea to call him “killer.” The message seems to come across anyway because he gives you a single nod. 

You let out a steadying breath and try to figure out what you’ll say to the others. You hope to see the most reasonable survivors: Claudette, Feng. Maybe Dwight, if he can get over the shock of a three-killer trial. You hope to whatever god there is that Laurie isn’t there. You cast another furtive glance at Michael and repress the shiver that comes from seeing his stoic form in the shadows of the trees. You take a deep breath and step toward the bonfire.

Your shoes press down on the leaves and sticks and then the sound turns to the crunch of gravel and bits of bark scattered around the blazing fire. A few heads raise as you get closer. 

Jane manages a smile. “I heard that was a hard one.”

Jake scowls. “Fucking nightmare. I don’t know what we did to piss the Entity off so much but sending Hillbilly in too? That was bullshit.”

Ace scoffs into whatever drink he’d managed to find. “Unlucky is what I say.”

You glance around the campfire and let out a small breath when you see Laurie is absent. “Something happened.”

“Other than the fact that we got our butts kicked by _two_ killers?” Feng asks. 

“Three,” you correct automatically. Then you cringe because that’s not helpful. 

“I take it you died a painful death?” Ace asks. He takes a drink like he doesn’t expect an answer. 

“No.” 

Every face at the campfire turns toward you. Nea raises and eyebrow. “ _You_ escaped three killers?” 

You hold up your hands. “Wait a second. Listen, I didn’t do it on my own. Someone helped me.”

Half the survivors sitting around the fire turn to look at Feng and Jake. Dwight was missing, probably in a trial already. Poor soul. Jake shakes his head at the silent question. The other half stares at you. 

“I need you all to stay calm. It’s…a lot to process and I’m still trying to figure it out but, he helped me. He’s different.”

“What are you talking about?” Nea asks. 

You look behind you but of course there’s no way to see Michael through the thick tree cover. “Just hold on. I’ll explain everything.” You turn around and speed walk through the brush. Your mind is still reeling from what’s happened and you’re becoming aware of the aches and pains from the trial. The damages inflicted might have healed but you’re still left with the phantom pain of a hook through your shoulder or the cut of a knife. 

You make it back to the trees where you left Michael. You pause. You’re pretty sure this is where you’ve left him. By this point you know the trees around the campfire well and there’s no way you forgot where you came from. You spin around in a circle, scanning for any sign of Michael’s form between the trunks, but with each step the voice in your head grows louder. _shit shit shIT SHIT_

You’re at a campfire with more than a dozen survivors and there’s a killer on the loose. No, not a killer. Michael. “What the hell are you thinking,” you mutter to yourself. “Of course he’s a killer.” _But he didn’t kill you._

~~What makes you so special?~~

You don’t even waste time going back to campfire. You already know everyone there thinks you’re insane and delusional. You sprint to the cabins, to other campfires, anywhere. The Entity didn’t give the survivors many places to rest – just a handful of cabins and a few campfires to wait for trials. You do two loops of the area, always coming back to where you started. _Where is he?!_

You make out Jake in the distant, making his way to one of the cabins situated just inside the tree line. Your voice doesn’t make it past your tongue. You race to stop him from getting too close the trees, too close to whatever invisible shadow might move to fast, cut too deep. Jake gets to the door of the cabin and enters without incident. You sprint the last yards and make it to the steps. You can’t tell if you should feel relieved or anxious that he wasn’t here. You throw the door open and it bangs against a table someone had placed too close to the opening. 

“Shit!” Jake half-turns and looks at you with wide eyes. He relaxes and lets out a haggard sigh. “Damn, that trial really messed me up.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Are you gonna tell me I can’t take a nap?”

Your eyes move from the empty entry to the wooden stairs leading to the two bedrooms upstairs. The house seems quiet. Jake’s still staring at you. He heaves another sigh and rolls his eyes, muttering under his breath as he turns to the stairs. The stairs creak under his weight and you hold your breath as he makes it to the first landing, then the second. You hear footsteps echo through the ceiling overhead. _It’s fine. You’re just overreacting._ A shout comes from upstairs and a thud reverberates through the wood. 

You’re already halfway up the stairs before you realize you had moved. You grab the top banister and pull yourself into the short hall. Your momentum takes you straight into Jake who’s frozen at the top landing. The two of you plummet to the hardwood floor. There’s no rug, there’s nothing because the Entity doesn’t care for interior design – comfort means nothing when you spend your days dying.

“Jake, you can’t just stop at the top of the stairs.” You definitely bruised a knee and something else. You push yourself to your feet, but as you brace a hand on the floor, you realize your hand is sticky with something red. “What the…”

You look up and see what had made Jake freeze. Your heart sinks as you look at Dwight, pale and stiff, white shirt dyed red, pinned to the bedroom wall with a knife through his ribs. You have a vague memory of Dwight, absent around the campfire when you first got back. You look up at his body and empty stare.

Jake pushes to his feet. His shoes slip on the blood pooling around the door. “No. No! Damn it, Dwight. You can’t just fucking–” He bends double and pounds a fist on the floor boards. “God, he was so annoying, yeah, but… he was still a good – I don’t want him to die. We had a deal, he and I, we were gonna–” 

Even though his eyes were dry, Jake might as well be crying. He rounds on you and grabs your shirt. “What the fuck did you do?” He shakes you until your teeth rattle. “You did something. Whatever you said at the campfire, whatever you fucking did in the game – how did you survive three killers?” He spews questions and you try to answer him but the only thing you can focus on his Dwight hanging behind Jake’s shoulder. 

“We should take him down." 

Your words distract Jake enough for you to pull yourself from his grip. Your shoes stick to the blood, already drying in puddles and patches. You’ve seen enough blood to know this is relatively fresh, and Dwight’s skin is still pliable as you grip it. His body isn’t even cold yet. 

Jake manages to regain enough composure to grab your arm and push you away from Dwight. “Get out,” he says in a low voice. You hover for a moment, caught by the watery look in Jake’s otherwise vacant face. “Get out!” 

You don’t argue as you descend the staircase in a hurry. You try to process your memories, to make sense of what’s just happened. Death isn’t new to you but this is the campsite. This isn’t a trial. You went through the hatch, you know you got out. But it feels like a trial. Except for one thing: Dwight isn't coming back.

You need to find Michael. Need to find wherever the hell he went. ~~He left you~~

“Hey, what's the rush?”

You whip your head up to see a group of survivors heading toward you. Jane gives you a strange look. _They're gonna know. They're gonna find the body._ You can't speak, and running makes you look guilty, so you didn't do anything. Jake will tell them, Jake doesn't care about you – Dwight's Dead. 

You don't see Feng in the group. “Where's Feng?” Your voice comes out a bit thin and you cringe at the panic in it. Someone shrugs. I have to go.

You check the rest of the rest of the cabins. Nothing. No one taking a nap, no one fucking, no one pinned to walls or stabbed and dismembered. Though a window, you see the survivors flooding the cabin area; news about Dwight's death must have spread. Of course there'd be panic, you brought a fucking _killer_ to the campsite. You bang your hands on the windowsill and the pain echoes up your arms. You bite your lip at how stupid you were to believe you could – that he wouldn't do this. _Why_ did you do this? You remember the weight of him over you back in the trial. The care he gave.

A shape from the corner of your eye draws your attention. You have no idea how you saw it, but here’s there in the tree line. White face. Dark hair. Your heart pounds as you sprint down the stairs, out the back door. You make it to the tree line but don't see him. _He's leading you_ , a voice in the back of your head says.

You fight through the branches, pushing sticks and cobwebs out of your way. Where is he where is he whereishewhere – 

Blood.

 _No, no, no_ “No, no.” You follow a hand print, a broken branch hanging off a sapling. The trail of blood leads you to a mangled, twisted body. You collapse onto your knees beside Feng's body. You want to grab her, check her vitals but the amount blood coming from her chest is enough. There’s not knife mark, just a hole of cracked ribs and torn flesh. You try not to think about the red and bloody mass of flesh lying a few feet from her. Her head is cocked at a wrong angle, everything is at a wrong angle. You lean back on your heels, your breath coming faster with every drop that soaks into her favorite cardigan.

You don't hear a thing but you know he's there. “Why?” You choke out the word. The empty mask stares down at you. Your throat closes as he takes a step toward you. 

Michael. You try for his name but you're not even sure you spoke. He crouches in front of you and runs the length of his bloody finger down your face, temple to chin. Feng’s blood leaves a cold trail on your skin. “Michael.” This time you manage it in a small voice. He grips your chin, then he's gone.

You pick up the first object you see, a wrench, as if you could throw it far enough to hit him in the shadows. You freeze. A wrench? You realize Feng must have been holding it. She always was the smartest. You grip the cold metal tighter and pace in a tight circle beside Feng’s body. You need a plan. You need to do something. What the hell was Feng going to do? You look down at the wrench. News of a killer would have traveled so it makes sense that she’d grab a wrench. But where she got one is beyond you. You don’t have time to unwind her thoughts. You can’t stay in that forest anymore. You can’t stay next to her body, mauled and ruined. 

You need to save the others. 

You bolt back to the cabins. By now every survivor not in a trial is panicked. You try to keep track of who is here but without knowing who's in a trial, roll call is impossible. Nea, Jane, Kate, David. In the back of your mind you realize Claudette’s not with them. 

You grab Nea by the arm. “Jake. Where’s Jake?"

She pulls herself free. “Last time I saw, he was going to bury Dwight’s body. Are you okay?"

“Where?”

You barely register her answer before you’re sprinting toward a campfire. You’re not sure where Michael could be but you pray to god, the universe, even to the fucking Entity that he isn’t where Jake is now. 

You move to dodge under a branch but you’re slow and feel the slice of the branch against your cheek. You stumble in the dimness of the eternal night but regain your balance. You take a moment to find your bearings but it’s impossible to tell where in the stretch of woods between the cabins and campsite Jake might have gone. 

You take a random direction, try to weave through the forest and cover as much ground as possible. Surely someone carrying a body would make some sort of noise. You let out a curse as you realize the only thing you’re accomplishing is getting sweaty and tired. You’re letting panic take over. The thought of the wrench in Feng’s hand pulls you back. Whatever she may have been planning doesn’t matter, the only thing was that she had the right idea: There is a killer and he needs to die. 

~~But he’s different.~~

A scream pierces the night. Then another. You can’t make out whose and you hate that you can’t. You should know these people. You’ve fought with them, lived with them, survived with them. 

You can feel your breaths become quicker. 

Panic gets you killed. 

~~You should panic.~~

You take a deep, ragged breath. Focus on finding Jake. Focus on one goddamn thing. ~~But it’s so hard when you know you can’t fight back.~~

You shake the thoughts out. Where would Jake go? You set off back through the trees, careful to keep to the shadows. You stay low, keep on your toes. In a perverted way it feels good to be thinking like this again, to act like every shadow cast from the dim firelight is a killer, a weapon, a generator, that every crooked tree you pass under is a hook ready to crunch through your ribs. A shadow shifts. You freeze and crouch low to the bushes, feeling leaves poke at your legs. You creep forward. Jake? Or Michael? Or survivor taking a midnight stroll. The shadow shifts again, and as you get closer to the firelight flickering through the trees, you realize something’s strange about the shadow.

You already know before you get close enough to see the dark skin and glasses askew and cracked. Her head hangs at a strange angle and it takes you a moment to realize it’s because of a tree limb pushed through her neck. It’s unclear if Claudette even had the chance to yell, but you hope for her sake that Michael didn’t gave her much of a chance. Your eyes sting as you watch Claudette, hang there in the trees, limp, frozen, dead. The stinging in your eyes doesn’t lead to tears. It doesn’t lead to anything. Part of you still pretends this is a trial, just another game where you’ll all go through horrible things but be fine when you come out and see the fires of the campsite. 

The light of the campfire doesn’t comfort you now as you leave the tree line and see the bodies arranged around the blazing flames. There are four of them posed around the campfire like some perverted bonfire party. Ace is posed, ready to toast a marshmallow. A dead bird is stuck on the end of the stick in his hand. For some reason the only thought that crosses your mind is, _I don’t remember ever seeing a bird outside the trials._ Your brain fixates on the fact that it is a crow.

Your eyes only dart around to Nea, sitting with her arms crossed, Meg with her track jacket smeared an awful brown where the blood obscured the blue designs, Kate with her blue jeans shredding into bloody pieces. You don’t realize when the firelight flickers across another body, but the pale mask was unmistakable. 

“Michael.” Even saying his name feels like a curse. “I thought you were different.”

His head slowly tilts the side and the knife glints in the firelight. He must have gotten it back. Must have been back to the cabins, found the others. You swallow but it does nothing against your dry mouth and rising panic. “This wasn’t…”

Someone crashes through the bushes and you over your shoulder to see David standing with a wild look in his eye. As soon as you do, you regret taking your eyes off him because when you look back Michael is gone. He always liked his games. 

“What the hell is happening?” David is huffing as he stares at you. There’s crusted blood on his forehead but you can’t tell if it’s his or something else’s. “Everyone else is dead.”

His statement seems stupid. Of course everyone is dead. The campfire is full of bodies. 

“Where’s – where’s Jake?"

David balks at that. “Where’s Jake? What the fuck does that matter? Fucking Michael Myers is here and you’re worried about that jackass?” David swipes at the blood on his forehead. “How did this freak get here in the first place?”

Your tongue freezes and you’re aware of the bodies posed around you and the blazing fire. The shadows are stretched and stark. You realize you should have just died in that trial, let Freddy rip you apart piece by piece as he cackled, his knives scratching and clinking. You’re a coward ~~and you should die for it.~~

“David, it’s not safe. We need to –”

“No, fuck that.” David’s face twists as he takes in the campfire. “I’m not going anywhere with you.” 

You spot him first, his intense stare going right through as if he’s already dissecting you. You move to push David out of the way and put yourself in between them. The Shape has already moved. He stands in front of you and all you can do is stare. He reaches out a hand brushes your cheek with the back of his hand. The cuff of his shirt is speckled with blood and his hands are now stained with dark smudges but his tough is gentle as it runs across your skin.

“You son of a bitch.” David’s voice pulls you back. He isn’t talking to Michael. His lips curl into a scowl and he draws back a punch. Michael reacts first and the hit to David’s gut drops him to the ground. David chokes to get air in. Michael bends over and grabs his throat to pull him up. David’s toes are nearly a foot off the ground. His eyes are wild as he claws at Michael’s hands but the Shape doesn’t release his grip.

“Michael, stop! Don’t hurt anymore people. You don’t need to.” He doesn’t pay you any attention. You run up and grab his arm, trying to wrench it away from David who is struggling to draw in air. Somehow you manage to loosen his grip enough and David chokes in air. 

“You…” David strains to get his voice out. “Sick bastard…I hope you di-” The rest of his sentence is cut off at Michael tightens his grip. He throws you off and you sprawl on the dirty ground. Michael’s thumb slides up David’s face to his eye and he slowly presses his thumb into the socket. You hear the squelch and hear David’s muffled screams. Blood pours over Michael’s hand as his thumb digs deeper into David’s eye. 

A tree branch cracks against Michael’s back and you flinch at the sudden sound. Michael drops David who sputters and spits. Dark purple splotches already decorate his neck and the entire right side of his face glistens red. David must be on pure adrenaline because he regains his balance and throws a punch at Michael, hitting him in the gut. Michael doesn’t flinch and only looks at the human. Jake appears and yanks you to your feet, hard enough that you’re sure he dislocated something. Jake pulls you into the trees just as the knife flashes through the night air.

You imagine the sharp metallic taste of blood in your mouth.

Once you’re deep in the tiny patch of forest Jake spins you around. “What did you do? I know you did something. At the campsite when we all came back from the trial you were going to say something.” He advances toward you and you notice he has a slight limp. You can’t imagine why Michael let him go. But the reason doesn’t seem to matter anymore. You fucked up. This was fucked from the beginning. You should have left him in that trial. You shouldn’t have taken that medical kit. You shouldn’t have talked to him.

~~But at least you weren’t alone.~~

“I didn’t–” You start to speak but stop because you can’t. As pathetic as it is, you can’t say you brought this monster in to hunt you one-by-one, but you can’t face Jake and tell him a lie. 

“Dwight was,” his voice catches, “a shock, but we thought maybe a survivor gone crazy killed him. But it didn’t make sense, then Jane went missing and now everyone is either dead or going to be.”

“We’ll-we’ll figure this out.” This lie comes easily and you hate yourself for it.

~~It’s not a lie. You can stop this.~~

But you’ve already done a headcount and the odds aren’t stacked in your favor. There’s no telling when others will return from the trial but it’s unlikely that it’d matter. 

Jake grabs you by the shoulders. “No, we won’t. How many trials have we won against Michael? How many have we survived?”

Your mouth goes dry because you know. You remember feeling that cold stare look through from across a street, across a farm, across a cold slaughterhouse. You can feel the panic set in, that tempting overwhelming panic that makes you want to hide and never come out, hoping you feel their presence disappear long enough for you to _run_. 

You grab Jake’s hands, rough with calluses, and maneuver his hands from your shirt. “We have to stay calm. We just need to figure out who’s left and where he is and then we can–”

“Get out? There is no out!” He throws his hands up. “We’re not in a god damn trial, we’re here, at the campsite. We already got out.” He paces in a small circle. “We’re fucked.”

“We can survivor. We’re survivors.” You grab his hand and start to pull him through the woods. You need to find shelter. The cabins should be in this direction, just on the other side of the small forest. If you can hide there, find a weapon. Feng found a wrench. You wish you still had it. 

Jake is still limping behind you, but he doesn’t make any sounds of pain. The only indication of the pain is a small wince on his face. You slow your pace, though you’ve just made it past the tree line and you hate being out in the open. Even a corn field would be better. 

“No, keep going.”

You start to protest but Jake pushes you forward. The first cabin comes into sight and you creep up the porch steps, wincing at every groan of the wood. Jake tries the door and it creaks open. You both sneak in and peek through the window. He gives up first, sinking to the floor. “This is stupid. We won’t see him. Not unless he wants us to.”

You continue to look out across the glass. The trees are still and you can barely see the smoke from the bonfire rising above the forest canopy. You don’t count how long you stay crouched there. You need a plan but the reality of your situation weighs on you and Jake is right. You can’t fight him: you have no weapons, you have no plan, you have no chance. You watch for any movement but you might as well be blind. Jake is still massaging his foot, hissing under his breath as he tries to stretch it. You look back up and see a shadow on the far side of a tree. Michael emerges from the forest and walks straight toward you. There’s no disguising the blood splattered across his jumpsuit. You swear you can see the drops of blood run down the blade of the knife to drip to the grass below. 

“Back door, go now!” 

You push Jake toward the hall before turning back and opening the door. A knife will hurt like hell but at least it could buy Jake some time. The cabin door opens to reveal the empty porch with the rusty porch swing and the empty gravel lot covered with pine straw and random sticks. Your eyes go wide and your breath hitches as you hear a thud from the hall behind you. 

By the time you enter the hall, Michael has already stabbed Jake through the throat. You instinctively back up and hit the wall, banging your elbow. Pain shoots up your arm as you knock your funny bone on the door frame. 

Jake’s voice whines and air bubbles erupt through the blood flowing from the wound. His hands clutch at the knife but his fingers become slick with blood and the blade just breaks the skin of his fingers in tiny slashes. You can’t see Michael’s face but you’re sure he’s wearing a gruesome smile, too large and full of teeth. 

He pulls the knife out and Jake stumbles, reaching out with one hand toward you. His fingers glisten with dark blood and you can feel bile rising in the back of your throat. You barely see the knife until the dim light of the cabin reflects off the blade buried deep in his shoulder. He tries to cry out but there’s not much left of a windpipe, if anything is left, and it barely makes more than a gurgle. You need to save him, he’s saved you countless times, but the only thing you do is watch the tears fall before his scream turns to silence. The blade cuts over and over and over again as blood pours out on the cabin floor. Jake’s body remains standing for a few seconds before it thunders to the floor, a useless corpse. 

You’re shaking. You know you are but everything feels wrong. Like this isn’t real, like this isn’t happening. Like you’re still on that farm, running from chainsaws and knives in a corn maze. 

He steps over Jake’s body, as if it was just an inconvenience, just something to trip on. You back up and maneuver through a doorway. The cabin isn’t furnished and instead of a kitchen stocked with knives and frying pans, it’s empty, devoid of even a table. It strikes you odd that you don’t remember the last time you ate. As if time has frozen for you, and you’re forced to live the same life over and over and over again.

You keep backing up, through the kitchen and fumble with the handle to the back door. In the last moments you manage to turn the handle and it’s only then that you realize your hands are slick with blood. You don’t remember catching Jake, but you must have because your shirt is soaked and stained. 

You almost trip down the stairs, still keeping an eye on Michael as you back peddle away. You turn to run and scrap yourself on the branches and twigs. You’re not sure where you’re running to, just blindly rushing away. You look over your shoulder to see him looming a few feet away. Watching you, lurking in the shadows, but where you had friends and decoys, now you have nothing. The obsession that had kept you safe is gone and now you’re left with the just the killer. 

You trip over a root and scramble to your feet, only to come face to face with Claudette still hanging in the branches. Her mouth is open and the branch sticking through it is now caked with dark stains from her frozen scream. You gag and force yourself to move on. You stumble again and can’t even bring yourself to crawl anymore. The campfire is there, on the other side of a clearing. You can see its smoke and smell burning wood. It used to welcome you but not anymore as ~~your friends~~ survivors sit around it. 

Michael must have reached you now because a hand grips your shoulder and rolls you onto your back. Up close you see his jumpsuit is covered with blood and mud and sticks and there’s a thin spray of blood across his mask. His hand moves to your face and that same gentle touch runs down your cheekbone. You feel yourself go weak as his weight pushes your down into the pine needles and dirt. His hand grasps your face and his fingers catch in your hair. You let him keep you there because there’s no use running. He’ll always be there. The faceless man who hunts you and taunts you and plays with you until you’re nothing but his. 

His weight is on you, his legs on either side of your hips as the cold steel inches across your jaw line, down your neck. You know you should struggle, should try, but you can’t. Struggling is futile but not fighting feels worse, like you’re giving up on Feng and David who fought so hard, and Jake whose blood will stain those floorboards. 

He presses deeper and the tip tears through the fabric of your shirt. The pain is sharp but you’re more focused on the weight on your legs, chest, on everything as he bends over and slowly brings his face to yours. The mouth presses against your lips and you feel yourself go soft and pliant under his control. The tip of the knife travels back up your chest and you gasp as the sharp pain travels over your stomach. 

A cry escapes you as you feel his weight shift and the knife continues its rotations over your skin. His breath sounds fast and he presses his lips against yours again. You open your mouth as you scream when the tip of the knife finally slips beneath your skin. Pain erupts across your stomach. You flinch automatically and it causes the knife to nick something else. You’ve never been good at anatomy and the pain feels like it’s everywhere. Hot liquid spills over and your breath comes in ragged gulps. Michael releases his grip and pulls the blade out, only now giving you a chance to assess the damage. Your fingers come away red and slick and sticky.

You feel something else slice into your side and your vision swims. You guess that you’re losing too much blood too fast, but you can’t tell. You feel that sharp pain again and again and the rushing in your ears makes it hard to hear. Your mouth is open so you must be screaming or crying or cursing him but you don’t know. The only thing you know is that this must be what he wanted.

In the wake of everything it feels strange to laugh. Of course this is how this ends. He found you in that field and saved you? No. There was no saving there was never saving. His fingers dig into your shoulder and push you deeper into the dirt and that stupid knife digs deeper and deeper. Your fingers need to cling to something and they reach into fabric and feel strong muscle underneath. You cling to him as your blood flows out. This entire time you’ve hated the Entity for making the trials and forcing you to live this cycle over and over, but you it wasn’t the Entity that did this. It was only ever you.

The last thing you remember is that expressionless mask. Those vacant eyes boring into yours as he watches your life spill out onto sticks and stones. You’re not even sure you can still feel the pain. Your vision fades and the final thing you comprehend is the silhouette of people appearing around the campfire.


End file.
